


Your Humble Servant

by bittymirror



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Background Nepeta Leijon, Bulges and Nooks (Homestuck), Caliginous Romance | Kismesis, F/F, F/M, Flushed Romance | Matesprits, M/M, Meowrails, Multi, Nepeta Leijon/Equius Zahhak Matesprits, POV Equius Zahhak, Pale Romance | Moirallegiance, Sollux Captor Has Dual Bulges, Threesome - F/M/M, dubcon, female dom, male dom, male sub
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-24
Updated: 2021-01-01
Packaged: 2021-03-09 19:07:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,793
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27691144
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bittymirror/pseuds/bittymirror
Summary: Equius is hopelessly flushed for Aradia, who is unable to return his feelings in any way other than caliginous. He'll do anything to maintain their current relationship, anything to please her. And she is prepared to take full advantage of this.
Relationships: Aradia Megido/Equius Zahhak, Nepeta Leijon & Equius Zahhak, Sollux Captor/Aradia Megido, Sollux Captor/Aradia Megido/Equius Zahhak
Kudos: 10





	1. Equius: Get in the Robot

Aradia steps towards you and your entire being tenses. You clench your jaw and will yourself into stillness, into not turning and crashing wildly through the table and the bots and the wall and running and escaping from this beautiful apparition, she _must_ be some sort of hallucination, she would never get this close to you, and then you can feel her breath brushing your chest. She tilts her head to peek under your glasses, and you are suddenly aware of every particle of sweat excreting from every oozing pore on your clammy gray skin.

She raises her arm, and you flinch. In her hand, she holds a mangled palmhusk, crushed almost beyond recognition. Your eyes flicker down to glance at it but you’re distracted by her delicate fingers, the scattering of veins bulging beneath her skin, the tiny folds in the flesh of her thumb where it curls around the screen. You memorize every detail, the fresh scrapes on her knuckles and the chips in the red polish adorning her nails. Already you are updating schematics in your head.

 _Stop stop you fool, you imbecile, she’s here, the real thing, she’s right here, you can_ smell _her_.

“I dropped it again. Fix it, and make it better this time. I’m tired of coming here for the same damn thing.”

Your swirling thoughts condense around the lilting tones of her voice, the delicious notes pouring from her throat to caress your ears, calming your mind and igniting your body.

“Yes, my lady. I will make it neigh…uh, nigh indestructible.”

She rolls her eyes, and the brief flash of the yellow on the vulnerable underside of her eyeballs makes you _ache_.

“Whatever. Just get it done, okay?”

You realize you are nodding, that you have been nodding for quite some time.

“Yes, yes, I will. I won’t let you down. When should I have the repairs completed?”

“Fucking hell, Equius. Why are you asking so many questions?”

You inhale discernably to respond, earnest and eager to please, and she waves her hand to cut you off.

“Don’t answer that. Have it ready as soon as you can.”

“I’ll start right away,” you blurt out, the words tripping over your broken teeth.

She smiles at you. A brief upward twitch of her painted lips, faster than a single beat of your thundering heart, but you saw it. You think about how easy it would be to reactivate the recording feature on your shades, but she’d forbidden it ever since she walked in on you watching a clip of her scratching her elbow on repeat. She was wearing a tank top in the video, a rare sight in itself, but what was truly spectacular about the recording was the single bead of tantalizing burgundy blood that she drew from a dry patch of skin while raking her nails across her arm. The way the liquid welled up so gracefully from inside her, a bloom of red against an expanse of gray, entranced you. You were grateful the image had already been burned permanently into your retinas by the time she forced you to delete it. It was too late now to capture her smile, and you know you can’t disobey her anyway. Instead, you uncurl your fisted hands, wipe your palms on your shorts, and present them to her. This is the safest way to manually transfer objects between you, greatly reducing the risk of accidental crushing or sweat contamination.

You focus on her movements, tracing the curves of her as she moves the palmhusk into your trembling hands. As she does, her fingertips brush across your wrist and you gasp at the unexpected touch. You feel a heat blossoming throughout your body, originating at that blessed contact point, and you bite your lip, _hard_ , to keep the moaning desperation inside. She clicks her tongue against her teeth, disgust plain on her face, and she snatches her hand away. And then she’s moving that hand to your face, and you’ve lost control of your voluntary motor functioning, and she smooths your limp hair away from your forehead and tucks it behind your ear. Slowly, oh so slowly, she lifts your dark glasses off your face and tosses them to the ground.

Her eyes are intense and something dark flashes in them when you meet her gaze. You swallow thickly.

“It’s absurd how fucking good you look,” she murmurs.

Before you can even begin to process this statement, she deftly slices open your cheekbone with one of her claw-like nails. You inhale in a sharp hiss, and she’s already walking towards the door. Pointedly, she crushes your glasses under her feet as she leaves, and then she’s gone.

You stand motionless, afraid the spell will break if you move. You’re basking in the residuals of her presence and you don’t want it to end. It’s not until the trickle of blood streaming down your face paints your lips that you accept her departure. Your lick up the blue swill and time starts again.

Her palmhusk, _fiddlesticks_ , you have to repair it right away. You rush to the inert atmosphere glovebox and flip open the magnesium alloy latch on the outer transfer chamber door. The acrylic panel swings open and you deposit the palmhusk inside. The sooner it is out of your terrible clumsy hands, the better. You replace the latch and breathe.

The fluorescent lighting of your workroom stings your bare eyes. You cast your ganderbulbs to the floor and make your way to the dented metal cabinets surrounded by disembodied robotic limbs and scraps of insulated wire. You grab the handle of the top drawer, too hard, much too hard, you can’t keeping losing control like this, and it crumples in your hand. You pull your hand back, and the handle along with it. Your face remains stoically impassive as you release the handle to join the rest of the trash on the floor. This is no time to let your emotions get the best of you. You have a directive. One thin claw reaches into the space between the drawer and the cabinet frame before jerking sharply to puncture its side. You crook your finger towards you and the drawer slides out without resistance. Inside are about 30 boxes of spare dark glasses. You grab a box and look from the drawer suspended in mid-air to the cabinet. The urge to repair it is strong, but you merely shove it back into its proper place and dislodge your nail.

The box in your hand opens along a single magnetic hinge, a design selected after extensive testing for its ease and durability. You dump the glasses into your hand and unfold them slowly. Your eyes close as you place them on your face. When they open again, the world is once more in comfortable shadows. A Trollian notification pops up in the corner of your vision, and you open it immediately. Aradia might be trying to contact you. Instead, Nepeta’s handle appears on the screen. You scan the messages rapidly.

arsenicCatnip [AC]  began trolling centaursTesticle [CT]

:33 < *ac stretches her paws above her head, waving them as hard as she can*

:33 < *”Hey!! Meowrail!” she calls, “let’s play!”*

:33 < *ac squints into the distance, waiting for her beloved furend ct to gallop up like always*

:33 < *as she waits, ac curls up on a soft patch of grass and closes her eyes. she twitches her tail back and furth playfurry*

:33 < *ac knows ct will visit her soon, they are never apawt fur long!*

:33 <ct? :(((

:33 < ct, please, are you okay? can you just let me know you’re okay?

:33 < im worried about you. i think your flushed f33lings are not good for you.

:33 < you don’t have to respond. if you see this, know that i hope you are doing okay.

:33 < i love you equius.

arsenicCatnip [AC] ceased trolling centaursTesticle [CT]

You worry your tongue across one of your recently broken teeth. You know you are failing in your duties in the pale quadrant but attending to Nepeta might interfere with you and Aradia. What if she tries to contact you when you are talking to your moirail? Or, gog forbid, what if she comes over unannounced like she did today, and you weren’t here? A single misstep in your interactions with her could snap the fragile thread holding you together. One inane blunder and you might never see her again.

You can reply to Nepeta some other time.

The blueprints of the previous repairs are appropriately stored in the corresponding folder on your husktop. You sit in front of the screen and turn it on to reveal the project you were working on before her arrival. Quickly, you minimize the window. You can’t think about that right now, despite the plethora of updates that will need to be made after today’s encounter. Something inside you twitches and you feel your nook flex and tighten. You grimace, but dutifully begin sketching out your half-formed thoughts with your custom tablet. Nothing, nothing, certainly not the disgusting bulge between your legs, is more important than making her happy.

Dutifully, you pore over the schematics, making slight adjustments to the chassis and reinforcing the impact points that crumpled when she dropped it last. This kind of work is easy for you. You thank the stars that you were drawn to mechanics and programming as a young troll. Your considerable skill in these areas is the sole reason you are useful to her. Or to anyone, for that matter. You shave a millimeter off the display enclosure, making it that much lighter. At the same time, the corners have been strengthened with your latest titanium alloy, practically guaranteed to withstand a drop of over 70 feet, a modest improvement to the previous limit of 50 feet. A small part of you panics at the thought of Aradia traipsing around 70 feet above the ground. But if exploring high towers and climbing soaring trees is what she wants, there isn’t really anything you can do about it.

Satisfied with your alterations, you transfer the updated schematics to your shades. Actually implementing the changes is, in some ways, the most effortless part of repairs for you. You’re just following instructions. You’ve always been good at that.

You approach the glovebox while giving the plans a final check. Eventually you can no longer avoid your next, hateful task. You wipe your palms on your shorts and glance longingly at the latex gloves affixed to the box. It would be so much easier to put your greasy hands directly into them, but then you would have to remove the sweat-damaged gloves and install replacement ones every 2 weeks. Much less efficient than simply wearing a protective layer of nitrile. Having convinced yourself yet again, you sigh, and pick up the box of gloves from the worktable. About half of the gloves remain from the last time you had to use the box. You wonder if 50 pairs will be enough. Gently, so gently your fingers shake, you pull out a single glove. Miraculously, it slips from the box completely intact. You allow a faint feeling of hope to cautiously approach your thinkpan from its dusty corner. Maybe this won’t be quite as unbearably frustrating as usual.

The second glove rips immediately. Your nails snag on the soft material and tear it open from the wrist to the thumb. No matter. The third glove is shredded in a similar manner. Soon, eight pieces of nitrile scrap are piled in your offal drum. Methodically, you pull at yet another glove. It makes it past the opening unscathed. You stare at it intensely, watching the finger-coverings emerging from the box as if someone else was clutching it. And then it is free, and you have two intact gloves to put on. The first glove glides over your gray skin easily. A faint twitch of your eyebrow is your only reaction when the second glove is punctured. You will do this, as long as it takes. You’ll do it for her. Thirteen annihilated gloves later, you are again ready to try to envelope your hand. Like an automaton, you go through the motions with precise, practiced movements. And finally, almost an hour later, you are ready.

You will your frustration and rage away into the void, and reach into the box. With practiced diligence, you flip the inner latch on the transfer chamber and slide the small platform into the inert atmosphere of the main chamber. You manipulate the prosthetic hands, especially built to withstand your maximum grip strength, and pick up her palmhusk. Dismantling the frame proves straightforward, as expected. The heat of your soldering iron and your box of spare bricked palmhusks you purchase off oBay make quick work of the damaged internal planar elements. Just as skillfully, you build and install the improved casing. Soon her palmhusk matches your diagrams exactly. You engrave the back of the case with her Trollian handle as she prefers, and you’re done. You place the device onto the transfer platform, shift it back into the exterior chamber, and almost giddily remove your arms from the unwieldy gloves and tear the nitrile off your skin. Now Aradia can return whenever she pleases, and you will be ready for her. Imagining a contented expression on her face, a word of praise, even a nod of acknowledgement for your efforts swells your bloodpusher.

You don’t know how long you’ve been working, or when you last ate. But there is still more to do. You don’t have time to rest. You notice your legs are a little unsteady under you as you walk over to a section of the room concealed with floor-to-ceiling curtains. Behind them, a facsimile of an examination room, complete with adjustable chair, awaits. You approach the large cabinet against the wall and open it to a rush of cold air. High bay lights in the climate-controlled chamber switch on with a reverberating _ka-chunk_ dampened by the heavy curtains. You look up at the figure standing within. She’s motionless. Lifeless. Her skin is shiny and gray and you press a button to begin the process of ejecting the myriads of cables and wires holding her upright. Dull hissing sounds mark the progress of her impending emergence. You listen to the creaking of her torso as it begins to slump forward. You raise your hands, your arms, and she falls into your embrace. Her cold skin is flush against your own, and for the briefest of moments, you press your face into her softly curling hair. Then, you fall back into your detached engineer persona and lay her down on the plush exam chair. Gingerly, you lift her head and sweep her hair out from under her, ensuring none of the priceless material severs or detaches. It had taken you a little over a year to collect enough of Aradia’s hair to cover your project’s scalp. You gathered them, a few strands at a time, with each of her visits. One glorious afternoon, Aradia ordered you to wash and brush out her dreadful tangles, your hands shaking as the brush accumulated more and more of her hair. Patches of bare follicles were still visible, but perfection takes time.

You arrange her neatly on the chair, crossing her ankles like she does when she sits. You push the anodized aluminum instrument tray closer, checking to make sure everything you need, could possibly need, is arranged on the sterilized metal. You tug your welding mask on over your shades and switch on the lamp mounted to the chair.

As with every upgrade procedure, you begin by running a brief diagnostic scan over her entire body. The structural integrity of her skin is intact, her mechanical organs are fully functional, her hand-sewn clothes are undamaged. She’s in peak condition. Next, you test her joints, bending and flexing her elbows, ankles, neck, all the vulnerable points on her durable frame. They extend through their full range of motion easily in your hands. You check the synthetic fluid running through the finely hammered sheets of her vascular system. Levels are fine, but the color…it’s not right. There’s still too much blue in it, resulting in a shade of crimson rather than burgundy. With only your own blood to finalge with, getting to even this approximation of her true color has been quite difficult. The memory of you filling your first Aradiabot with your own blood makes you cringe. _What had you been thinking?!_ As if you could hope to improve any part of her, let alone with part of you! What you had built back then wasn’t an Aradiabot, not really. It was an idealized perversion of Aradia that temporarily belayed your short-sighted, juvenile fears. Not this one though.

This Aradia would be perfect.

The only changes needed today based on your earlier observations were to her right hand. Small changes. Altering her nail polish, tarnishing her knuckles, and as you contemplate this list of corrections, you realize you’ve placed the dorsal first metacarpal veins too far below the surface of her malleable skin. And maybe the extensor pollicis longus too. The more you examine her hand, the more your mind fixates on the thousands of obvious, indisputably glaring, inconsistencies. You decide a complete rebuild is appropriate. The current model is a warped imitation of a flawless masterpiece. Surely you can improve it in some way, bring it that much closer to reality. You unsnap and unscrew, twist and pull, and her hand detaches at the wrist. Disconnecting the veins takes a little more energy, along with the use of your handheld dielectric tube sealer to prevent the loss of any fluid. When her hand is completely disconnected, you move it over to your worktable, placing it in a bin for later disposal. Quickly, you gather the familiar materials to begin forming a hand more befitting of your lady.

You begin with the skeletal structure: the diminutive bones of her wrist, the scaphoid, the lunate, adhering them to the metacarpals, to the tapered phalanges. Carbon and steel weaves into a recognizable scaffolding upon which to attach muscle, ligaments, tendons, arteries, veins. You craft each component mechanically, needing to reference only the previously-memorized diagrams within your mind. A quick-drying foam and artificial flesh composite fills in the gaps between her bodily structures. While it sets, you mold her inner dermal layer, a heat-conducting silicone, to ensure the warmth of her red blood can be felt on her skin. The outer layer, a micrometer thick sculpted piece of the same material used for her bones, gives her a metallic sheen while maintaining optimal flexibility and texture. You weld the last strips together and rub the sweat from your brow, liquid splashing and pooling on the floor. Wiping your hands on your already considerably damp pants, you open a small case filled with assorted beauty products, lipstick, eyeliner, and the like. You pick out the shade of red you’d seen alighting her nails earlier and give it a few decoagulating shakes. The polish goes on easy enough, and you tidy up your workspace waiting for it to dry. The only tool you need now is the tiny chisel clamped between thumb and forefinger. You laboriously recreate the random chips on her nails, the jagged edges and the discolorations. Stepping back, you give the replica a last visual examination. It’s your best work, as natural-looking as you can hope to make it with your current materials and technology. You allow yourself a self-congratulatory revel for a generous 30 seconds.

Now to join the intricate web of wires and tubes sprouting from her wrist to her hand. The process is tedious, but necessary to ensure full functionality. After connecting the median antebrachial vein, you push the dissected segments together, locking them into place with a satisfying click. Everything appears to be in order. You can feel her blood start to circulate, warming her fingers. Your neck is stiff and your hair is plastered to your forehead and the back of your neck. But you’re done. You think of her palmhusk, and you realize there is still more for you to do. Testing the fit of it in her hand would confirm the configuration of your upgrades as well as ensure the case will be comfortable for her to hold. You roll your shoulders back and forth, and are rewarded by a cacophony of crackles. You continue to stretch out your arms as you walk to the glovebox once again, pausing to flip the latch. You smell her. Her sweet lilac scent tinged with the musty smell of decaying earth. Opening the outer chamber releases her confined aroma into the larger room, and your nostrils flare with your ardent inhales. Ignoring the sudden sense of euphoria threatening your self-control, you take her palmhusk over to her still-seated replica. This is a test, after all. A trial to ensure your woefully inadequate memories of her align with the stable existence of her personal possession. This is not the time to…to luxuriate in fantastical delusions of requited red. The cellular device slots neatly into her curled fingers. It’s perfect. She’s perfect. She is as close to your Aradia, the real Aradia, the flesh and blood alive Aradia, as you can possibly make her.

Of course, she is nowhere near full mimicry. Without references, you cannot hope to construct an accurate representation of her physical form. The parts of her you dare not hope to one day witness, the soft flesh of her upper thighs, the skin taut around the weight of her breasts, the slit of her moist maidenhood. For now, only the barest framework of these precious parts hints at their ultimate construction. You know nothing you can imagine could ever compare with her true shape. You are prepared to never complete her to your satisfaction. She deserves your best effort, the best shape, Aradia’s shape. _Stars_ , her shape. How many nights have you pictured the curves and angles of her, standing in your doorway, looming over your prone form, curled up between your arms. A sudden deluge of sweat coats your forehead, and you can’t seem to look away from the scaffolding of her hips. You try again to suppress your spasming spongy tissue, but the repairs are finished, the updates have been integrated, there’s nothing to distract you, to overwhelm this overwhelming _need_.

She’s so beautiful.

Your breath hitches as you begin to unfurl, the sudden movements stretching the walls of your nook. _No, no_ , you can’t do this, you can’t defile her like this. The thought of her seeing your grotesque mutant bulge sends waves of alternating shame and arousal coursing through you. Your nook is so tight, it _hurts_. Fully engorged, you barely fit inside. At this point, it would be self-injurious to not expel your genetic material. You cannot function at your peak performance for Aradia if you are injured. This is a purely pragmatic endeavor.

You unbutton your shorts and let them sink down over your thigh-highs to your ankles. The stirring of your phallic tendrils has already pushed out some of your slurry, dampening the front of your black underclothes. More fluid trickles out as you pull that last layer of fabric from your legs. You lick your lips, part of you refusing to believe in the “pragmatism” of what you are about to do. But without the confining pressure of your clothes, the folds of your nook relax enough for the engorged tip of your bulge to slither out, and you soon disregard your conflicted higher-order cognitive functioning.

The rest of your bulge emerges with a wet gush, smacking against your thigh with a sorry splat. It flaps about, weakly, pathetically, too heavy to send seeking tendrils very far from your leg. In your desperation, you flutter your gaze about the room for something, _anything_ , to ease your fervid craving for contact. And you see her hand. Lying there, inert and immobile on the table. It’s scrap now, raw material to be reused in another project. There’s no harm in using it to relieve yourself now. With a pincher grip, you lift her hand off the table and hesitate an instant, almost out of obligation. Then you’re lowering it toward your bulge, just out of reach. You edge her hand closer, closing the gap by a few centimeters, and your bulge responds immediately, fumbling towards something solid to latch onto. The sensitive flesh makes contact with her cool metallic skin. Instinctively, you coil around her, wrapping her fingers to the tip in blue. You let go of her, and your bulge maintains its grip, suspending her hand in mid-air.

Panting heavily, you rest your hands on the edge of the metal worktable, small indentations already forming under your fingertips. Better the table than…yourself. The first, and only time, you had touched yourself ended in what you were convinced was a permanent injury. But your body was strong, and your regenerative capabilities ensured you would be able to propagate indigo offspring.

You hang your head to watch yourself writhing between her fingers, and your hips stutter forward into her touch. It feels perfect, exquisite, _right_ , she was made to hold you, you made her to hold you. The reinforced plating of her skin, the corded density of her muscles were all far, far, more powerful than you could ever hope to be. You would never break her. She could take all of you, and far more.

Your stilted thrusts grow rhythmic and steady. A high-pitched whine escapes through your gaping mouth, echoing off the walls. You grind your teeth together, tamping your voice down in the back of your throat. You wouldn’t want anyone to hear your lascivious cries. Not anyone in your empty, lifeless, barren hive.

“What’s…the point,” you mouth, the dry skin on your lips chafing.

“What’s the point,” you mutter, testing out the sound of your voice.

“What’s the POINT,” you shout, tears of frustration springing to your eyes. You groan, loudly, shamelessly, and you rock your hips harder. Tendrils twist tighter around her inert fingers and you grunt in time with your shallow thrusts.

“Oh gog, oh gog, oh gog,” you chant, a zealous worshipper of her holy figure, “yes, yes, yes.” Short, sharp thrusts punctuate your mumbling cries. Pressure builds at the base of your bulge. You close your eyes and picture that inscrutable expression on her face when she cut you earlier. When she touched you.

“Aradia, my lady, please, please,” you beg, and she smiles that wicked smile and _squeezes_ you hard, so hard it hurts, and you gasp as slurry gushes out of your nook to splatter the floor below. Your bulge undulates sporadically, engulfing her hand in a deluge of blue. Your nook contracts around nothing, and you watch your genetic material dripping off her hand. When your tendrils shrivel and retreat back into your nook, lethargic and drained, her hand tumbles to the floor. You can’t bring yourself to let go of the table. You don’t trust yourself to remain standing.

The door sliding open behind you jolts you upright instantly.

“Equius, what in the actual fuck.”


	2. Equius: Get Cucked

Standing in a puddle of your own filth, shorts around your ankles, slurry quite certainly staining your socks as it runs downs your legs, you gape stupidly at her indecipherable expression. For a moment, she’s as still as you, hand clutching the doorframe, feet frozen in mid-step. And then her mouth fractures into a smile so big her flat teeth are visible up to her red-tinged gums. She crosses her arms over her chest and leans against the wall, shit-eating grin never wavering. Somehow her palpable delight in this situation rouses a trace of indignation in you.

“Oh, you stupid little slut,” she pronounces mournfully, her hair swirling about as she shakes her head.

“I-, you, how dare you! You have no right to say that to me, you-“

“Filthy lowblood?” she cuts off your vaporous spluttering.

You weren’t going to say that, you didn’t mean that! How could any part of her be filthy, any part of her be low?

She pushes herself off the wall and saunters over to you, studiously stopping just short of the wet spot on the floor.

“I’m not the one with my dripping nook out. No, no, don’t even fucking try to explain yourself out of this one, my _tenable highblood_.” She presses her finger to your chapped lips and it takes every bit of you left to not lick up her residues when she draws it away.

You’re roiling, you want to punch that smug look off her face, to grip her warm, soft throat in one of your hands and lift her to dangle helplessly in the air, to drop to your knees and beg her to let you cum again. You turn around, you can’t watch her watching you anymore, and you pull up your shorts.

The gleeful squeal she emits as your bumbling fingers work at the button makes you cringe.

_Please tell me she hasn’t seen what I think she’s seen._

“Oh gog, oh noooooooo, Equius, no, EQUIUS, please tell me that isn’t what I think it is.” Her voice is breathy with laughter, she’s positively giddy.

_Fuck._

Why is this happening.

You’ve always been careful, you’ve always been strict and professional. You fastidiously slide the zipper up your shorts, leaving the metal tab glistening with sweat.

“It’s none of your concern what I do in my friesian time. If you are here to collect your palmhusk, I will fetch it for you posthaste. Otherwise…” you trail off, unable to come up with a meaningful threat. She bounces up and down on her heels, practically vibrating with excitement.

“Otherwise? Otherwise, what? You’ll make a fucking SEXBOT of me?” Laughter spills out around her words.

“It’s not a sexbot!” you snap, whipping around and drawing up to your full height. An arc of sweat sprays into the air. This is utterly, completely humiliating, but you won’t let her talk about her that way. “It’s a…project. Just something to test new materials on.”

She smirks, clearly not believing your feeble excuses. She twists her skirt back and forth in her hands, fabric scrunching between her fingers.

“Yeah, okay buddy, whatever. So why does the _definitely not a sexbot_ fucking look JUST like me, then? Hmm?”

“I-I…it wasn’t a decision made with conscious intent. I just…the first one I made. The one for you. I couldn’t allow that to be the culmination. It was the work of an amateur. She’s…she will be perfect.” Your voice is a low rumble in the back of your throat by the time you finish your sorry explanation. You’re staring at your socked feet, letting your hair fall like a veil across your face. You don’t want to see the bold brushstrokes of emotion certainly painted on her face.

Peals of harsh laughter echo off the surplus of metallic surfaces in your room. Through the gaps in your hair, you peek up at her. She’s clutching her stomach, and…is that a tear running down her face? Still laughing, she kicks off her patent leather flats and enters your pooled secretions. You wince, start to raise your hand to prevent the sullying of her tender feet, but you don’t. You can’t. Blue squelches between her toes, and she slips a bit on the coagulating fluid. Her hand latches onto your arm to steady herself. You tense, bracing for a slap or scratch for the inadvertent contact. Several hours-long seconds pass, and she hasn’t moved to hurt you. Still she squeezes your arm, though she’s recovered her balance. She could stand without your assistance. She grabs your forearm with her other hand. You raise your head, neck cracking audibly. She’s rubbing your arms now, almost…massaging them.

“Sweet Equius,” she sighs. “You’re strong, you’re beautiful, but you’re so fucking stupid.” She pushes you away then, but there’s no anger behind it. She bends down and grabs Aradia’s hand, shaking off the excess liquid. Holding it up to her stunning red eyes, she twists and turns her hand, wiggling her fingertips and plucking at the wires poking out of her wrist. She spreads her fingers, stiffened after prolonged disconnection from her bloodflow. With a kind of morbid fascination, she holds hands with herself. She strokes the back of her hand with quiet fingertips before releasing it to tumble to the floor again. A strange sadness inundates you as she turns to her chair. Aradia stands over her body, fingers ghosting over her skin, tracing the air over her metallic curves. Despite yourself, you watch her carefully for any signs of approval, of validation. When she reaches her hips, she snorts, and taps the thin metal scaffolded there.

“What, you don’t know what a nook looks like?” she asks, looking at you over her shoulder.

You glance down at her pelvis, then back up to her face. You don’t miss the brief quirk of her eyebrows.

You clear your throat.

“I don’t know what _your_ genitalia look like,” you justify. “And I refuse to create anything that isn’t true to model.” Her eyes narrow in disbelief.

“Equius. I literally saw your cunt like 5 minutes ago. I promise you they aren’t that different.”

Your nook tenses involuntarily. She’s talking about you. She _saw_ you. Despite your recent expulsion, you feel genetic material accumulating behind your seedflap. You scoff in what you hope is a derisive tone, scowling down at your magnificent kismesis. 

“That’s irrelevant. Every detail must be perfect. What’s the point in creation if it isn’t perfect. Besides, there’s more than just the nook to consider. There’s your-“ your voice catches in your throat suddenly. “…the bulge.”

“I’m pretty sure you have one of those too.” She wiggles her toes, splashing a bit of your erotic fluid on your feet.

You flush, reminded again of the shameful state she found you in. You fold your arms clumsily, but it feels wrong, and you take a piece of your hair between your fingers to fiddle with.

“It’s not the same. It’s not you.”

Aradia reaches up to seize your chin, forcing you to gaze over the tops of your glasses into her eyes.

“Oh my GOG, this much raw pity is really turning me off. You don’t have any idea how close I was to fucking you, do you?”

The world starts buzzing around you, and you think you black out a little. Before you can even begin to process this declaration, she lets you go, twisting your neck sharply as she does.

“Just…just wait here. Seriously, don’t move.”

She strides out of your room, and the _woosh_ of the door sliding closed ushers in an uncomfortable silence. You wipe your hands on your pants absentmindedly, and you straighten a few of the tools on your worktable. Glancing back at the door to ensure she wasn’t about to enter again, you sweep Aradia’s hand up from the floor and deposit it into the waste receptacle. You drop a few pieces of paper on top for good measure.

You start to wonder if she’s coming back.

Voices, muted at first, grow in volume as they advance down the connecting block.

“No, I swear to fucking gog, it looks just like me,” Aradia gushes excitedly.

“Yeah, sure. Even he isn’t that much of a fucking creep,” a lisping voice responds disinterestedly.

When the door opens, Aradia leaps inside with her arms outstretched, gesturing towards the examination chair. More specifically, to the body reclining there.

“Hmmmmm???” she exclaims triumphantly.

Her companion groans and removes his glasses.

“Fucking bitch ass spawn of a fuck did it. He actually did it.” Sollux squints at the prone Aradia, blinks, and puts his glasses back on. Little crackling sparks of blue and red of agitation dance between his horns.

“Bruh. Why,” he asks you flatly.

You briefly consider responding indignantly again, but Aradia’s already heard that sad defense and she’s sure to call you out. Especially in front of her matesprit. You find yourself twisting your fingers together and popping your knuckles, avoiding the intense stare behind his red and blue glasses.

“Well, whatever man. This is fucking weird as shit,” he says in your general direction. Then, addressing Aradia, “Come on dude, grab your shit and let’s get the hell out of this sweaty cave.”

“Babe, wait.” Her tone is icy and commanding and it sends a pang straight to your bulge. And to Sollux’s too, if his uncharacteristicly rigid posture is any indication. He opens his mouth, his tongue catches on his fangs, he closes his mouth.

He tries again.

“AA, are you sure? _Here_?” the emphasis he places on his last word more than adequately expresses his trepidation for whatever she is suggesting. She flicks a stray stand of hair over her shoulder and huffs.

“Babe,” she repeats, just as forceful. This seems to be enough of a retort for Sollux, and he shrugs nonchalantly.

“Well fuck, you know I’m always down. Not super into this scrub watching, but, well,” here he pauses to remove his glasses and waggle his eyebrows, “I’m sure you’ll make up for it.”

Aradia snorts a laugh, then regains her composure. “I knew you would say that. Don’t even think about him. Pretend he isn’t here.”

He nods and places his glasses on your instrument tray, _that can’t be sanitary,_ and Aradia is speaking to you.

“Equius? You can turn your cameras on. Something makes you think you might want to watch this again.”

 _Watch what_ sticks in your throat because Aradia is stripping off her clothes. Her long skirt, her ill-fitting gray sports bra, her socks embroidered with little skulls, all of it. Then she’s eagerly ripping off Sollux’s shirt and pants, aided by her sparkling burgundy psionics. It’s all happening so fast. Your eyes sweep haphazardly over her nude form, you don’t know where to look, but you’re drawn to the gathering of skin demarcating her nook, the supple skin of her breasts, the red swell of her nipples, _fiddlesticks_ , her inverted nipples. Your bulge thrashes like a threshecutioner’s skillful blade inside you. Hands press hard into her rumblespheres, not your hands, Sollux’s hands, but oh gog, how they sink into the yielding flesh. He’s thumbing at her nipples with an unhurried ease, like he’s done this an untold number of times, like he knows exactly how to draw them out. When they’re erect, Sollux drags his tongue over the newly exposed skin, swirling around her nipple roughly, much too roughly, you’d never treat her like that, but she’s moaning, she’s pushing his head into her breast until he’s sucking.

_She likes it._

One hand runs through his hair, over and over like a physical mantra, encouraging her matesprit’s vigorous mouth. The other moves in small circles around his two left horns, and you see him shiver every time she brushes against their sensitive bases. She latches onto the larger horn and twists. Sollux grunts and squeezes shut his eyes, but he continues to dutifully suck her breast. When she grips both large horns though, he gasps and jerks away from her.

“Aradia, fuck, fuck me,” leaks out of his throat in a shaky plea. She paps his cheek in a mocking facsimile of a moirail (oh gog, Nepeta, what would she think of this) and shooshes him.

“Dear Sollux, darling Sollux, what have you _possibly_ done to deserve my bulge?” she coos. He slaps her papping hand away and hisses through his abundance of teeth.

“Well for starters, I’m sucking your tits in front of literally the most condescending chitin chunk I can think of to watch us bump bulges.”

Her hand is around his wrist in an instant, pulling his arm up in the air as far as her own can extend.

“What the fuck did I say about him?”

Sollux bares his teeth at her in response.

“What. The fuck. Did I say?” she repeats, her cadence surprisingly level for how angry she seems. He fights her for a few more seconds, but her crackling energy leaves his arm immobile.

“You said…Aradia, you said to not think about him. Pretend he isn’t here.” He recites dutifully enough, though you detect an air of exasperation in his voice.

“That’s exactly right, love. Now why don’t you show me what that means,” she purrs, lowering his arm to place his hand on her hip. He parallels the movement with his other hand, and you can tell by the indentations of his fingers in her skin that she’ll have bruises in the morning. With the same intensity, he presses himself against her, nipping at her neck. A lilting moan is his reward when he sinks in his incisors. His voice is even more garbled than usual when he pleads, “Can I use them this time?”

A sharp tug at the back of his head detaches him from her skin.

“Please, AA, let me use them,” he asks again, her blood dribbling down his chin. Apparently, this was what she was looking for because she nods and kisses his nose. Red and blue sparks flash over her in erratic patterns. She floats upward ethereally until, _oh sweet jegus_ , until Sollux’s face is aligned with her nook. He reaches behind her to cup her ass, using both his psionics and his hands to maneuver her into place. Her ankles cross at the nape of his neck, and she pulls him in a bit more.

You can’t tell what exactly he’s doing, but Aradia is responding favorably, so it must be good. Lewd wet slurping elicits correspondingly lewd cries. She’s squeezing her thighs together and undulating rhythmically against him, using her feet on his neck to simulate the push-pull of a twitching bulge. Burgundy pre-slurry and yellow-hued spit run down Sollux’s neck and over the lithe muscles of his torso, so different from your own massively solid chest and stomach. But you feel disconnected from your body anyway, like you’re floating above yourself, and you look down at her face, eyebrows scrunched together in concentration. She pants in tiny gasps, sometimes punctuated by increasingly feral groans. One of Sollux’s hands drifts down, and you watch in wonderment as he sends small telekinetic traces down his arm, through one finger, and into her spinal crevice. She jerks wildly, and Sollux’s psionic output increases slightly to hold her in place through her orgasm. A deluge of red cascades from her nook. You see Sollux’s throat working to swallow it, but there’s too much, of course there’s too much, and it sloshes onto the floor. You’d heard the rumors about lowbloods, but the sheer volume of liquid her small body is producing astounds you. It must be so slick inside her, surely almost frictionless. You crash back into yourself again imagining how your bulge would feel in her nook.

Or how her bulge would feel in your nook.

Sollux has set Aradia back on her feet, and he’s licking his lips like his mouth is coated in the sweetest of honey. She stretches her arms overhead, pushing out her chest and looking about the room. She apparently finds what she’s looking for.

“Equius, be an antlered hoof-beast and bring that table over here.”

It takes you a moment to realize she means you, and another to realize she means your worktable currently covered in some pretty valuable tools. You don’t hesitate though, sweeping the sundries onto the floor with one arm and lifting the table with the other. Mere moments have passed when you deposit it gently in front of her, and you whisper, “Here, my lady?”

She considers the placement, and nods.

“That’s perfect, thank you.”

You feel your mouth cracking into one of your terrible grins, and you duck your head.

“Equius, sit on the floor. Sollux, get on the table.”

You sit. Sollux walks over to the table and thumps it with a red-stained hand.

“AA, really? This thing is made of metal and it’s cold as Equius’ blue shame globes,” he grumbles.

She clambers rather awkwardly onto the table and stands up to her full height. She takes a wide stance and puts her hands on her hips.

“Yes, _really_. Now get that fine ass up here before you actually make me mad.”

From your kneeling position on the floor, you have a pretty good view of the two trolls on the table. Sollux is on his back, hands raised above his head and wrists encircled with sparking red cuffs of light. There’s no way Aradia’s inferior psionics could restrain Sollux, not if he didn’t want to be. You rub at your own wrists, trying to match the pressure she’s administering, but the feeling is so unknown to you, you’ve no idea how many pascals to apply. Aradia is palming his bulge through his baggy faded jeans, so low on his hips you can see his spotty patch of coarse hair. He presses up into her hand, but her movements are measured and slow, guaranteeing he won’t be able to spill his genetic material. You however, are so engorged you might stain your shorts (again) just from watching. She didn’t say you couldn’t orgasm. But she didn’t say you could, either. Then again, “sit on the floor” is a pretty clear order. You nod to yourself. If she wanted you to spill, she would have told you to.

With his monochromatic boxers out of the way, his bulge is fully visible. Or, rather, his bulges. They’re both thin and lithe like the rest of his body, but they’re long and textured all up and down their sides. The hemibulge widens out at the base, where the two primary tendrils meet and extend into his body, but even here they are nowhere near your girth. A small and pathetic part of you was convinced that Aradia’s utter distaste for you rose from your gruesome mutations, but you watch her lovingly stroke Sollux’s deformed bulges and you send this part of you away. She laughs when she has trouble trying to peel away her hand, the ridges evidently serving some type of suctioning function. With a sticky pop, she’s free, and she’s lowering herself onto him. Pressed together, her fleshy curves melding into his sharp angles, they’re dazzling. Simultaneously contrasting and coinciding, they move like well-worn gears, readily slotting into place. Aradia sits up a bit and speaks, louder than necessary, louder so you can hear.

“Mmm, you’re being so good for me, love. Fuck my bulge out and I’ll let you use me like a bucket. That sound good?”

“Uh, fuck yeah that sounds good. You want both?” He’s already tilting her hips so his bulges can locate the heat of her nook and begin wiggling towards it.

“Yeah, lemme just…” It appears the insertion of his hemibulge is complicated, but she knows this and she uses her index and middle finger to spread herself open. You see a hint of her bulge inside, and then Sollux’s push in. Soothing downward strokes of Sollux’s hands on her hips encourage her to take more of him. A couple of inches are still outside her body, and neither of them are moving, but their parallel gasps signal something is happening. You don’t have much practical knowledge in this area, but you know that most bulges are prehensile to some degree. Perhaps Sollux has greater control than most. Your atrocious appendage can barely move on its own, let alone under your voluntary control. 

Your suspicions are confirmed when she lifts herself onto her knees, and you watch as Sollux’s binary bulges withdraw from her, curling around her bulge to tenderly tug it out. They contract and twist so effortlessly. With a grunt, he lets go, and her bulge, Aradia’s bulge, is fully on display. It’s short, barely half the length of Sollux’s hemibulge. Wide at the base, it tapers off into a delicate tip. Even her accessory tendrils are wide, you think wider than yours even. But what is really distinguishing is the color. The flared base is the lightest pink, almost white in its luster. The color deepens along her length, from pink to red to scarlet to crimson to burgundy, the exact shade of her freshly-shed blood. The effect is mesmerizing when her bulge convulses, the colors seeming to shimmer and shift.

She encircles her sweet pink base between thumb and forefinger and draws slowly upwards, squeezing herself all the way. Dark red beads of slurry wring out of fluid-expulsion pores as she goes. Her hand is drenched when she lets herself go, and she smears it on your previously pristine table in an ineffective attempt to wipe it away. More slurry surges out when she grabs herself again, _gog, where is it all coming from?_ , and she lifts her bulge, allowing Sollux access to her waiting nook. He can enter her fully now, despite how utterly engorged with slurry his dual bulges looks. They move together, her down, him up, inching together until they’re one. She’s flush against his stomach now, and his hips are twitching, tiny rolling movements that allude at something greater. You hold your breath, waiting for them to move, why aren’t they moving, your own body is aching, and now he’s thrusting into her, pathetic mewling cries seeming to emanate from his entire body. Aradia has one hand on her bulge and the other between his ruddy yellow nipples, leaning into his chaotic gyrations. He increases pace for a few seconds.

He freezes.

Choking back a cry, Sollux pails inside her. She rubs circles into his chest, humming happily, neon yellow slurry filling and emptying out of her cyclically. Sollux’s chest is heaving and the little jabs of his hips seem to be communicative rather than passionate. Aradia evidently gets the message, as she slides off his quickly limpening bulge and cuddles up next to him on your table. The red rings around his hands disperse into nothingness and he draws her closer to him.

They look so peaceful, laying there together in a mess of red, yellow, and orange. You don’t want to interrupt their reverie by standing, even though your legs are cramping. You continue to sit when the couple stirs from their placidity to clean their bodies in your bathtub. You continue to sit when Aradia tousles your hair and bids you farewell, when Sollux doesn’t give you a single glance as he leaves holding Aradia's palmhusk. You continue to sit long after they’ve left you, alone in the room you spend all your time in so you can ignore the cavernous emptiness of your hive.

You continue to sit.


	3. Sollux: Lie Out Your Ass

You can’t think about what happened. It doesn’t fit neatly into your painstakingly curated understanding of the world and so you can’t think about it. You don’t allow yourself to. In idle moments, you find the thoughts slithering in, insidious and tempting. You eliminate idle moments. Works long considered “in progress” are completed. Corners are dusted, sanitized, organized. Your lab is spotless. Even the connecting block between the access port to your hive and the lab is cleansed. You aren’t quite ready to enter the other rooms. You don’t know if you ever will be. There’s too much bombarding you with the realities of the choices you’ve made in the past few years and each day brings you closer to your breaking point.

When the physical and mental reminders of the existence you’ve carved out for yourself approach overwhelming, you think about how you got here. Clinically, detached. Like you were taking notes on a robot damaged in a brawl.

Subject CT, EQUIUS ZAHHAK, is terribly, pathetically, hopelessly consumed with redrom feelings for Subject AA, ARADIA MEGIDO. Previously considered caliginous; further examination proved fruitless in terms of evidence of true blackrom. She’s too lovely and you want to please her too much. You’d do anything for her, anything, anything, and-You sigh and mentally erase the last couple of lines.

Remember, Zahhak, detached and clinical.

…evidence of true blackrom. Subject AA appears fully in the black quadrant with regards to Subject CT. See: every interaction you’ve ever had with her, in addition to flushed relationship with Subject TA, SOLLUX CAPTOR. It is this technician’s recommendation for Subject CT to provide Subject AA with as little reason as possible to detest him further, as the subject’s mere existence seems to provoke her ire. Too far in the caliginous direction and Subject AA may lose the tiny shreds of romantic feelings she inexplicably holds for Subject CT. Suppress and obey. Become what she wants.

Even if it feels like you’re clawing out your own bloodpusher.

Further recommendations include: self-isolation to avoid the well-meaning concern of your moirail, confinement to your lab to help you focus on increasing your value to her while decreasing the number of potential distractions, and a complete abandonment of the unnecessary emotions you used to rely on so heavily.

You imagine signing the note in your blocky, thick handwriting and filing it away with the others. No matter how many times you go over it, you always reach the same conclusion. If you want to be graced with her presence for even a moment, this is what you must do. She wouldn’t want to be around your skulking, greasy, mutant self otherwise.

No one would.

A dull ringing in your ears sharpens into the sound of your doorbell. You blink blearily and look at the metal horn you were shaping for a bot. You don’t remember how it got in your hands.

The doorbell chimes again. How long has it been ringing? Who even is ringing it? Aradia knows she can just walk in. You melt out of your chair and stumble, your legs stiff after sitting for so long. Or at least, you assume you must have been sitting there a while. You aren’t really sure.

You find yourself in front of the door, and you make the logical conclusion you must have walked there. At your touch, the small video monitor on the wall flickers to life and you raise your shades to get a better look at the figure on your doorstep. You see the vibrant blue hat you gave her perched securely on her head, conical horns jutting through perfectly tailored openings. To your knowledge it has stayed there since you gave it to her so many sweeps ago. At the time, you convinced yourself it was to indicate to your _fellow highbloods_ this lowly oliveblood was under the protection of someone gifted with, no, _deserving_ of the rich indigo blood in their veins. Your younger self would never give a present based on something as unseemly as affectionate feelings.

How you wish to return to those days when things made sense. You didn’t have to think about anything beyond highbloods good, lowbloods bad. A simplistic perspective for a simplistic troll. The hemocaste system made your decisions for you, who to worship and who to abhor. You were so naïve you didn’t even recognize your burgeoning masochistic tendencies as unusual. Didn’t everyone have to pummel their crippling doubts about every aspect of their life into nothingness in order to function on a daily basis and then watch helplessly as those doubts inevitably escape in nonconsensual attempts to rationalize your innate desire for submission against the oppressive standards of your authoritarian government? That question would occasionally pop into your enormous empty head, and when it did, you responded like you always did: with insatiable, unquenchable rage. Rage makes it easy to move through the world. To forget things. You raged at your bots, your moirail, your fellow trolls who constantly berated and judged you for no reason you could fathom other than being yourself. It didn’t take long for you to learn being yourself was another concept you could place firmly in the bad category. The only troll who ever made you feel like this self schema was perhaps inaccurate, was…

Nepeta. She’s rung again. You haven’t activated the audio function on your monitor, but you recognize a sigh when you see one. She looks good. Tall and muscled and wound up, like she’s constantly on the cusp of pouncing. Her hands are bare of their usual meowbeast-paw gloves, and you notice her nails are trimmed neatly into razor-sharp claws. They’re even clean of the dried blood of her prey for once. This is the part where you answer the door, invite her in, and prepare her some of the tea she keeps in your meal block. You’ll listen, and she’ll talk, about her recent kills and changes to her shipping wall, and you’ll nod and smile and hope she won’t ask to see your lab. And then she’ll finish her scalding leaf fluid and bid you marewell and you can get back to waiting.

Or that’s what would have happened two, maybe three sweeps ago. Before you found what you wanted from your life and made the changes necessary to achieve that goal. Changes that included slowly severing your ties with Nepeta. You still hadn’t responded to her last Trollian message. Had you even responded to the one before that? You can’t remember.

Regardless, it’s much more difficult to ignore Nepeta’s physical presence. And she’s still there. You want to hate how much she cares about you, but it’s hard. Even at your lowest, you could never truly hate her. You click on the speaker and greet your moirail.

But all that comes out of your mouth is a terrible creaking. Nepeta perks up and walks closer to the door.

“Equius? Equius is that you?” she asks, rather frantically. She’s clawing lightly at the door, like she can shred the thick metal and climb through. You clear your throat as quietly as you can, until you feel like you can produce something intelligible. You clear it once more for good measure.

“Yes. Nepeta, it’s me.”

She exhales out a sob, and her hands clasp in front of her mouth. Through her tented palms, you hear her whispered “thank gog.”

Then she’s barraging you with questions.

“Are you okay? Do you have enough to eat? Are you getting my messages? Have you been sleeping enough? Can I…come in?”

That last question came out as more of a trickle than a barrage.

Can she? You want to ask for permission to have her in your hive, but there isn’t anyone around to tell you what to do. You guess it’s up to you.

“No.”

The word bursts, pus-like, from the fetid boil of your mouth. There is remorse in your gut and grief in your heart. Can she feel it through the tight grip of the void?

Her sharp fangs arrange into a faltering smile.

“I respect you and your decision, even when I don’t agree with them. I’ll never stop loving you.”

She pulls her hat down lower on her head and turns from your doorstep. She grows smaller and walks into the space beyond the lens of your camera. You need to do something. Now, before you can process what just happened. You don’t remember what you were doing before Nepeta was here, but you know it must have been in the lab. Halfway through your return journey, the bell rings. It rings and rings and rings and rings and rings and you have a second chance. You trip over your own feet and skid your knee across an exposed seam in the floor, tearing your socks and, you think, your flesh. You almost fall again getting to your feet when you hand slips in sweat, but you make it to the door and pull it open hard enough to make the hinges groan.

“Woah, calm your rumblespheres, she’s not here.”

He’s right. Nepeta stayed gone, but you whip your head from side to side hoping to catch a glimpse of her anyway.

Sollux’s voice is considerably more irritated when next he addresses you.

“Dude, why would I lie to you? Aradia’s. Not. Here,” he spits, literally, spraying your shirt.

Aradia? Aradia, yes, that’s who you should be looking for. And yes, Sollux is indeed telling the truth. You don’t see her anywhere, and the only traces of her scent emanate faintly from her matesprit. Your first instinct upon this realization is to close the door, so you do, but Sollux’s foot wedges in next to the frame.

You stare at his shoe quizzically.

“Are you fucking deaf?? I said I wanna talk to you, let me in!”

He wants to push his way inside, so you let him and now the two of you are standing together in a dim hallway.

Sollux seems talkative today, so you wait for him to tell you what he wants.

You don’t wait long.

“Look, before you start, Aradia may not be here, but she knows I’m here, so don’t do anything creepy or weird or Equius-y, or your whole,” he waves one hand around vaguely,” _thing_ with her is over. Got it?”

He continues before you even nod in assent.

“Right, so, I know the last time I deigned myself to be in your sweat-soaked presence, you voyeured all over me and AA, which was fucking nasty, by the way. Ugh, wait no, I mean it was nasty at the time, _seemed_ nasty, but after, I decided, well, reconsidered. FUCK, anyway, AA’s right about one thing. You’re fucking hot.”

You stare down at him. Is he trying to tell you something?

“Like. Like hot, physically. I mean, not the sweat thing. Okay, the sweat thing, but also you are physically attractive.”

You blink behind your shades.

“To me.”

“Oh. Sollux, I-“

He starts hitting you, punching you with all his weight. Your arms, chest, stomach. When he sees he isn’t making any sort of impact on you, he snarls and kicks at the circular scar above your knee, freshly painted with your indigo blood. Hissing, you drop and clutch at your leg, baring your teeth at him. What does he even want from you? He’s panting now, clearly unused to physical exertion. He inhales deeply and barks out a wheezy laugh.

“HA, shit you do look good on your knees.”

Movement catches your eye. If you aren’t mistaken, Sollux’s hemibulge is twitching in his sweats. You dearly hope you are mistaken. You swallow hard and look up at him, confusion plain on your face.

“Yeah, it’s out. What the fuck are you going to do about it?”

You own heavy breaths mingle with Sollux’s in the dank air.

“Aradia will back me no matter what I say.”

You’re still not really sure what he’s getting at when he pulls down his pants just enough to free his bulge. The twin tendrils sway together in front of your face. Sollux is near hyperventilating now, and he pulls you closer by your intact horn.

This, you understand.

You think you should be angry, but you just can’t muster up the energy. The most you can do is feel empathic anger on your behalf. After all, what can you do, really? Break him, beat him, crush his tiny skull between your hands? That would only lead to conflict with Aradia. And another mess for you to clean. And, you think, looking up at his contorted face, listening to his incomprehensible mutterings, he needs you. He left the comfort of his and Aradia’s hive to find you. To use you. You lick your suddenly dry lips.

His dual bulges still sway aimlessly, unable to find any viable heat sources nearby. You wonder if your mouth is warm enough to register on their embedded infrared biosensors. Before you can recall the details of your anatomical research, Sollux hits you again, open-palmed this time. Your face stings a little and you reluctantly recognize the earliest stirrings of your flaccid bulge. 

You hum a sound of displeasure in your throat, and Sollux slaps your other cheek. You gasp at the unexpected strike, your shades jarred askew by the force of his hand.

“What are you doing?” you snap, teeth gnashing.

“What the fuck are you doing? Don’t you know how to suck a bulge?” he retorts, voice shaking with anger and perhaps a hint of fear.

You settle your glasses back on your nose and consider pushing this fool to the ground and stomping his bulge into yellow mush. You lick your lips once more and open your mouth, draping your tongue out and over your teeth.

“Yeah, that’s more like it,” Sollux purrs. He puts his hand back on your horn, the other dropping to your shoulder. With a wiggle of his hips, the tips of his bulge brush against your tongue. You want to jerk away from the bittersweet taste, but you restrain yourself. It wouldn’t do to let Sollux think he wasn’t in control. He tries again and this time hits the mark, both tendrils slipping into your mouth.

The feeling is odd, but not altogether unpleasant. His tendrils are warm and pliable, and while long, they are thin enough that your gag reflex isn’t activated. You feel the textured ridges sliding against your tongue, producing little tickling pops. When they reach the back of your throat, they curl up and back towards your lips. Are you supposed to be doing something right now? With your cheeks puffed out and nose pressed against Sollux’s flat stomach, you strain your eyes upwards, hoping to gauge his reaction.

Sweat is beading on his face and his eyes are so scrunched up you can’t tell if they are open or closed. Regardless, he can see, and he sneers down at you obnoxiously.

“You know, this whole fucking thing could have been avoided if she would just let me jailbreak her some shades or some of those trashy fake glasses, I could get her whatever stupid apps she has on her stupid palmhusk, she won’t even let me _root_ _it_ , but noooo she insists on that clunky piece of junk because she, and I quote, “likes the weight of it in her hand,” and because I made the objectively right decision to specialize solely in software, I can’t do shit about broken screens and cracked chassis. Because why would I ever need to??? I can literally alchemize a husktop out of two nails and a piece of glass. But, again, AA needs things to be just so, and before you start, I know everyone thinks she gave up on trying to control everything, but there’s still some things so firmly under her thumb, she’d break her own bones if she presses down any harder. Anyway, her palmhusk is one of these thumb-presser things, and you’re somehow the only one who fixes it how she likes. Isn’t that fantastic? You’re not even the only nooksniffer around here who can build bots. There’s…there’s that Dave guy’s uh…dancestor? I know fuck-all about human interspecies relations. Oh, and your dancestor too. Does he make anything besides horses? Well, whatever. It’s not like I care. You awake down there, loser?”

You nod, there’s not really much else you can do to indicate your current state of consciousness. The motion pushes his bulge against the roof of your mouth and he moans at the contact.

“Fucking do something then, gog it feels like I’m inside a fish, you fucking…blue…” he trails off. You don’t think he was ever planning on finishing that sentence.

“Something” is a rather vague command, but you can work with it. You start by moving your tongue, slowly, experimentally. You run it over his bulges, then between them to their conjoined base. The flesh here feels different, a little spongier, and you press your tongue down harder. Sollux mumbles a few yes’s between his string of insults and you flick at it rapidly with the tip of your tongue. He doesn’t seem to like this, you can feel his bulges actually recede, and you return to applying alternating steady pressure and slow strokes. You’ve never had the opportunity to exercise the muscles of your mouth quite like this, but you aren’t surprised that you can keep up this repetitive motion ad infinitum without the slightest hint of fatigue.

Sollux, however, is begging you to stop, hands clutching the sides of your head in desperation. You continue your ministrations, plodding along like the brutish hoofbeast you are. He’s really pulling at you now, his hands having found your ears. It hurts, but you won’t stop. Especially now that Sollux is crying about how close he is. A few more licks and he’s melted, bulges spasming so hard you can’t keep them in your mouth. One slips out before he slurries, and yellow liquid is pouring down your throat and your front. The bittersweet flavor now tastes primarily bitter, and you part your lips to let his genetic material flow out. There’s no sense in trying to prevent it from spilling.

You wait patiently while Sollux thrusts weakly in the direction of your mouth, until he stills and his bulges start to drift back towards the warm comfort of his nook. Unceremoniously, he pulls his sweatpants back up over his bony hips and sighs in a way that can only be described as contented.

“Shit, dude. Uh, Equius. That was pretty fucking great.” He pats your head, reminiscent of the way Aradia last touched you. Just much more awkward. You nod and stand, dislodging some coagulating slurry. Sollux shifts back and forth and misses putting his hands in his pockets twice.

“Well, uh. I guess I’d better get going.” He turns to the door, then whips back around with a “wait!” You haven’t moved.

“I’ll tell Aradia. Like, that she should come here again. And maybe I will too. Or something,” he rambles. He seems to be waiting for some kind of response, so you smile a curt smile, one that requires no movement other than your lips. This seems to placate him, and you think you hear him mutter “cool cool cool.”

Then he’s shutting the door behind him and you drop your smile. You smooth down your hair, forgetting before it’s too late that you’ve still got slurry on your hands. It’s cold now, and sticky. Your hair is in clumps.

What a mess.

You look down at yourself, at your soaked clothes, and under your shoes, the slurry coating the floor.

This will take all day to clean.

You feel your smile return, unprompted, genuine even.

What a mess.


End file.
